Honorably Dishonored

By Michael French

Okay, I guess you good people would like to know why I wrote this book. So I will dig into my past again, and remember all things that happened to me and all the pain and all the hell. Believe me, I wish I was not writing this book. I wish these things did not happen to me. I wish my life could have been different. I wish I didn't wake up in the middle of the night with sweats. Body drenched, remembering, but I do. I look around me at people pursuing their dreams, their careers, their ambitions with smiling faces. Joyful attitudes and breezing through life without a care, and I didn't mean they don't care. I just mean they seem real happy. I don't know how to do that myself. It seems like there is a shell around me all the time. The only thing that keeps me a float is Father God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit. I don't know what it feels like when other people talk about the picnics and adventures. Boating, canoeing, and things of that nature. After what happened to me being sodomized by Sergeant Johnson and almost beat to death every day, and now trying to get help from the VAs. It just brings me back around like a big circle. Right back into depression, and why do they do this? Why are they like this? Why do I have to tape record and video tape every single thing that is going on? Because I realized that I needed to write this book to expose all of these evil doers. And now just maybe by the hand of God our great president Donald Trump will read this book and do something about this. God Bless America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636926902

Michael French

Michael French is an adventurer and a calculated risk-taker with a live-life-to-its fullest attitude and roll-with-the punches spirit. After a distinguished military career and retirement from the United States Air Force, Mike served in the State Department as a foreign service officer. The combination of experiences that colored his younger years in the military, the events of his second career, and the fortitude gained from his adrenaline-pumping hobbies have made him into who he is today. Now spending much of his time on the water, and with the energy of a teenager, Mike maintains and sails his beloved Ericson sailboat on the waters of Southern California and beyond, days, weeks and sometimes months at a time. When not at sea or at the marina, Mike resides in the coastal town of Encinitas with his wife, Patty, who indulges Mike's desire to explore and push limits, understanding and accepting that Mike hasn't yet "got it out of his system." Insta; sv_PeregrineHeart

Book preview

1

Feeling Alive

Nothing Bad Could Ever Happen

What a spectacular time in 1972 for me, Michael French, and everything around me in the Chicagoland area. All the way from Lakeshore Drive to Romeoville, Illinois. The sky was blue, white clouds, cool breeze, picnics in the forest preserves, fishing, softball, and we can’t forget about the Chicago Cubs or the Bears. Picnics in the backyard, washing the car in the driveway, friends stopping by on their bikes, saying hi—this was the wonder years for me.

I started working at McDonalds at a buck thirty an hour at the age of fourteen from junior high with a work permit from the school signed by my parents. I was not supposed to work past seven o’clock, but my manager George would punch me out and still pay me to work later. I wanted to buy extra things that my parents couldn’t afford. Plus, it made me feel important to have a job at that time. I did keep my grades up above average as I was working.

I also gave my mother money that I later found out she saved in her dresser drawer for me. I thought I was contributing to the household expenses, but since Dad was working at Fisher Body General Motors. I guess she felt that it was not needed for the expenses. I think she was trying to teach me responsibilities, which she did.

Back then, our three-bedroom, two-bath house, one-car garage in 1965 only cost $15,900. That’s way different from nowadays. I checked the same house on Realtor.com in July 2019. It was about $185,000. That is a great big difference in our economy nowadays. But back to the simple days, stamps were about two cents, gas was about eighty cents a gallon or less.

Things were simple, but times were still difficult. The war was going on in Vietnam, and I was told by the army my draft number was coming up. In fact, it was on television, and letters came out they needed to send more men over, so at that time, I was worried. Then my high school started a forty-five fifteen-day plan with A, B, C, D tracks, which meant when we came back to school since it was overcrowded with nearby communities that I may be starting on A track. Then you may be starting two weeks later on B track, then whoever may be starting on C track two weeks later, then whoever may be starting on D track all year round with no summer vacation. Well, that really screwed everyone’s summer jobs to hell!

My parents signed for me to buy a 1972 Plymouth 340 Duster. State Farm Insurance at full coverage was $165 every six months. The payments on the car were $110.97 every month. That was pretty hard on a buck thirty an hour. No more summer job, and I was already working every day after school anyway. My job was twenty miles away from my home, which was a gas expense also. That would not let me pay for everything properly, so then I thought about the army recruiter.

As I went down to Afees in Chicago, a Marine Corps recruiter came out and talked to me in front of the army recruiter. He grabbed me by the arm and promised me that if I join the Marine Corps on a delayed entry program because I was only sixteen at the time that I would get college training since I wasn’t graduating from high school yet, and tech training for something to take care of me when I got out of the service. He also told me to observe the type of uniform that he was wearing compared to the army which did, in fact, look better. Staff Sergeant Kennedy, the recruiter in Joliet, was wearing dress blues, and they sure did look nice. He had a louder, more commanding, and more convincing voice. As the army recruiter backed down, I chose to listen to the Marine Corps recruiter. I was told and did, in fact, enlist in a six-month delayed entry program and became an honorary recruiter myself, even before boot camp, and I was proud of it.

Honorary Recruiter

With this recruiting badge, I was told to walk twenty miles for the walk of mankind. I was the only one to finish the walk before entering boot camp. With blood and blisters on my toes and feet, I’m the only one that finished the walk. It took several hours and a whole day’s time to walk the twenty miles.

I walked hard and I walked proud. I had to finish and I did. I got a little certificate made out of paper with Snoopy—the Charlie Brown Snoopy—lying on top of his doghouse, just a copied off paper stating, Walk of Mankind, and a Marine Corps sweatshirt to wear while I was walking. But that was okay; at least I did it. I don’t know if this helped Staff Sergeant Kennedy recruit more teenagers like myself into the Marine Corps I’m sure now that’s what his intentions were. He also brought me around to many schools to speak about the delayed entry program and my guaranteed schooling program.

2

Scared to Death

Now was the time on June 6, 1973, that I was supposed to report to boot camp. Early in the morning of June 6, Afees in Chicago is where my dad dropped me off. He stood and watched as the bus drove away to the airport. There were many types of teenagers on that bus. We were all scared and did not know what was in store for us. I remember on a propjet plane in Charleston, South Carolina, where they told us to hold on because the plane had to land with a flat tire. The plane stopped on the runway. We were told to disembark as they fixed the tire.

It was pretty exciting, and the Charleston, South Carolina, air was humid and warm but kind of breath-taking. This is part of the country that I’ve never experienced that was kind of swampy, but I was excited. We were then transported from there to Parris Island, South Carolina.

I remember seeing the guard gates and the guards waving the bus through. When the bus stopped, the driver just froze, and a drill instructor with a Smokey the Bear hat came on the bus and started screaming to the top of his lungs, stating, Hurry, hurry, hurry, you maggots! And he guided us to painted footprints on the asphalt that we were supposed to stand on. I thought to myself, This isn’t training, it’s confusion.

We were all scared to death. I kept seeing signs like Only a few good men will succeed here. Also, I saw signs that said, Death before dishonor. We were told to be at attention or what we thought attention should be, but I guess it wasn’t the right way because several of us got hit, beaten, and screamed at. From there, we were hustled into the barbershop to get completely bald haircuts. Then we hustled from there to box our civilian clothes, take showers, and some kind of chemical thrown on our body to kill whatever they thought we might have brought with us. We hustled from there to get three sets of skivvies, three sets of utilities (which are the green khaki uniforms), three sets of green socks, three sets of black nylon dress socks, web belts, two covers, our hats, two pairs of combat boots, one pair of dress shoes, shoe polish, a brass cleaner, Bo-Peep Ammonia, and the rest of our articles. And then we hustled to what they called the bam. I found out later it was actually a squad bay.

We were issued a footlocker, two sheets and pillow cases, pillows, and one wool green military blanket. We had to square everything away in the footlocker to a tee and make our bunks before lunch chow. After ten minutes of eating lunch, we were hustled out of there and sent over to get shots. I can’t remember how many shots I took, but I knew I started feeling funny about two hours later. I couldn’t or wouldn’t say anything at that time because of fear. Plus, we had to go out right away for a three-mile PT run.

I kept feeling like I was going to pass out during the PT and the three-mile runs. Sometimes I would break out in a sweat; both of my knees were about the size of bowling balls. Finally, I asked to go to the doctor. I was laughed at, yelled at, and called a sick bay commando. So I tried to endure this for a week or so. I remember going to sick bay, and all of the recruits that were in sick bay at the time had to stand at attention in a line next to the bulkheads or walls to see the doctors. I remember sliding down the wall, passing out, and that was it.

Approximately a week later, I woke up in the hospital with doctors and nurses all around me. I tried to speak but I could not. I looked up at the ceiling, and it just kept spinning. This happened all that day, and I kept hearing the doctors tell the nurses or other doctors that my vital signs were still unstable. I did not know what was happening at this point. The very next day, I woke up as they were sponge-bathing me. I asked a nurse what was happening. She said the doctor would be in shortly.

I kept asking them, Where am I? And why am I in here? Finally, a team of doctors came in. They all had clipboards and were looking at the machines, writing things down, and talking amongst each other. I kept asking, What’s going on? No one would answer me.

I was so weak, but I managed to knock over a water pitcher so I could get their attention. Finally, I guess it was the head doctor who came over next to me as the nurses was cleaning up the water and told me I had been in a coma. I think he said five days and that I was still in Parris Island hospital. He said they had to run more tests on me, and they did not know if I would be able to go back to training until they had the findings from the tests. I asked anybody if my parents knew what was going on with me. They said everything was taken care of, but really, it was not because this was the only thing they sent my parents: one letter from Parris Island and one letter from Staff Sergeant James W. Kennedy, my recruiter.

I know this is a fact because after they told me what was happening with me being in a coma and that it could be from penicillin, they sent me to a recovery area with other marines. I had a chance to call my mom collect. She did not even know I was in the hospital, much less in a coma. She called up someone at Parris Island and demanded to know what was going on with me. No one could tell her anything or even if they knew me.

After she called all over the Parris Island base, she finally called the hospital and spoke with someone where I was at. I don’t know if this move or what my mom did was good or bad. What I mean is I know it’s great for a parent to worry about her child, but the doctors and the staff became very bitter with me after that. Within a couple of days, which would have made a total of about two weeks of hospitalization, they told me it was time to sign out and go to a new platoon, which was Platoon #257.

Boot camp letter

Certificate of Acceptance from Staff Sergeant Kennedy, my recruiter

After being released from the hospital, they sent two Marine Corps recruits from platoon #257 to escort me back to the barracks. I did not know where to go or where anything was. I was disoriented. After arriving at the barn—that’s what they called it—I had the privilege of meeting one of my new drill instructors, DI Sergeant Johnson.

I could hear him screaming from two blocks away from the barracks. I could hear garbage cans being slung against the wall. There were three levels, and we were on the second level when the two recruits brought me there to the doorway. I saw about five recruits doing pushups, another three doing jumping jacks, two more running in place real fast, holding their rifles straight out in front of them, which were M14s, and screaming to the top of their lungs, "I’m a scumbag, sir!"

The other recruits doing exercises were screaming out loud to the top of their voices, "Kill, kill, kill!"

Sergeant Johnson was running around like a psycho, bending down and screaming at each one of these people straight in their ears and their faces and kept telling them, "Faster, faster, faster!" He was running around to different bunks while all of this other stuff was going on, tearing the bunks apart, turning the footlockers over, and footlockers are where we kept all of our clothes and shaving equipment as well as our other equipment. Everything was a mess in there.

When he turned around and noticed the two recruits, he had sent for me, and his eyes pierced right through me. I could see the veins in his head pop out. He stood up and started marching right to me, at the same time calling the squad bay to attention. The rest of the people in Platoon #257 were from Virginia, and he noted that to me right in my ear, then looked me straight in the eyes about a half an inch from my nose, screaming, "What kind of maggot are you?" He then asked me where I was from.

I told him the Chicagoland area, Chicago, Illinois. That was the first time that I thought my eyes were going to be knocked out of my head when he slapped me on the left side of the head. He told me then to get down in the pushup position and start doing pushups. He said I must be punished because I’m a liar. He said that I was not from Chicago and that I was a cockroach liar and not to ever say that I was from Chicago again where he could hear me. He told me that I was from Florida because that’s where all the queers were and that I looked like one. That was my first introduction to this maniac DI Sergeant Johnson.

As I have been writing this book, I have been remembering things in detail, and it’s not that hard to remember them in detail because I also feel them in every form and fashion. I even think sometimes I smell things from that era. I’ve already had to stop quite a few times and take breaks, and not short breaks; I’m talking about a day or more from writing this book, and the reason is I start sweating, have rapid breathing, and my heart pounds very fast and heavily.

Picture of DI Sergeant Johnson (He is the sergeant on the left)

My psychiatrist, Dr. Small at the Nashville VA, explained to me that I have high anxiety, and what’s happening to me is panic attacks, which almost feels like heart attacks. He and I both worked together with medications that had these episodes somewhat under control. But where I am right now in my life in Arizona, I do not have any medications whatsoever for anything physical or mental. I will explain why this is happening to me later on in this book. I have digital tape recordings and videos that will also support anything and everything that I say. But for right now, I will leave you with my testimony and some pictures of DI Sergeant Johnson, the gas chamber, and other things at Parris Island that I had to go through, not to mention the hand grenade pit. And why in the world would these mean people who, in fact, beat you, abuse you, and cause you every pain they could get in a hand grenade pit and give me live hand grenades and try to teach me how to throw them?

When I held the grenade to my chest in my left hand and put my right finger in the ring, I was to pull the pin and throw at command. I would be lying to all of you if I said that I did not think about picking up the whole box of grenades and throwing the live one in with them and jumping right on Sergeant Johnson as they all went off. There was like a haze, and everything just